


Amoveo

by metalmeisje



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Body Horror, Creepy, Disturbing, Gen, Horror, just throwing them all in for good measure, possibly gore later, possibly more later on - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2345387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalmeisje/pseuds/metalmeisje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments in your life which you know you will regret from that moment on, until your last dying breath. This is one of them. (Or: The one in which things escalate enormously.) (Note to the Yogscast: Do not read any of my fics on stream.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. iubeo

**Author's Note:**

> Well, then. This is the result of an (ongoing) RP between the lovely Tumblr-user equalityforflowers (aka [Kittenby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenby/)) and myself. The prompt was something along the lines of "How would your character react to my character collaring them?" And thing, well, escalated. It's pretty much word for word our RP, hence the change of perspective every few paragraphs, but we both felt this was too good not to share. I swear we're both really nice people in real life, contrary to what this fic might make you believe. We just happily torture our muses as a way to relax.
> 
> ALL the love and hugs and respect to Kittenby for this one - you make me strive to be a better writer and gosh darned I love this story so much. Thank ou so much, friend.
> 
> (I sneakily stole a line from "O Death" by Jen Titus for the introduction thingie.)

there are moment when you rise

and there are moments

when you

fall

 

_but what is this, that I cant see  
with ice cold hands taking hold of me_

 

Martyn blinks, glancing around, at the sudden pressure around his neck. Here he’d been, merrily actually getting some reading done - shock horror, with his attention span sometimes - nice and peacefully, and… He turns his head, a little wary of the pressure, but thinking that it’d probably be a good idea to find out the cause before what it actually is. Which isn’t to say he hadn’t glanced down for a split second before remembering that faces were a thing, but, you know.

Xephos, of all people, was behind him. Welp. He tries to come up with something witty to say, or even just, after a few moments,  _something_  to say, but… He’s left completely lost for words, staring at Xephos, one hand reaching up to touch the… collar, of all things, around his neck. Huh. Leather.

Xephos bites his lip as he watches Martyn carefully, the soft leather of the leash wrapped in his hand not quite as comforting as he’d hoped. Why, in Notch’s name, did he always end up in situations like these? It was all fine and dandy that his friends sometimes saw him as the inofficial leader of their weird bunch, but when it meant that he was the one shoved forwards for tasks like these… 

He shifts his weight when Martyn doesn’t say anything, just stares at him with a confused frown as he softly touches the leather around his neck. He’d expected frustration, even anger, but nothing was… Well, nothing. With a sigh he runs his hand through his hair and watches Martyn expectantly, trying to figure out a way to explain all  _this_ so that it doesn’t sound horribly creepy or insane.

Long moments pass as neither of them speak, and Martyn finally summons up a few words, brow furrowed and expression a mixture of wariness and confusion.

"Xephos… what the fuck?"

Maybe not the most articulate he’s ever been, but, to be fair, he’s never been faced with this type of situation before. He notes the leash held in one pale hand dubiously, as well as Xephos’… frustrated? worried? something of the sort, expression. This… was odd. This was more than odd, even. This was, like, mega odd.

Well, that was a bit more along the lines of what he’d expected. He straightens his back and tries to push the worry far away, chasing it away from his eyes as he watches Martyn with as much indifference as possibly. Which isn’t much, but you know. It’s better than nothing.

"Martyn," he says with a curt nod. "I’m, ah, sorry for this. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come. With me, I mean." He shuffles awkwardly for a moment before reaching up with the leash in his hand, avoiding Martyn’s eyes as much as possible. This was  _awkward_. 

"What the fuck?" Martyn repeats, Xephos’ words not sinking in at all. This had to be a dream. This was so surreal, there was no way it wasn’t. Xephos… putting a collar, complete with leash, on him, and then completely unsuspiciously saying that he needed to come with him. This was textbook subconscious.

"What the hell is this, Xephos?"

Xephos doesn’t answer immediately, just secures the leash to a small metal piece on the collar and turns around. Then, hesitantly, he mutters: “It’s a… A favor. Trust me, you don’t want to know who I owed that favor to.” He waits to see if Martyn will follow. He wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t; heck, he’d expected a fight by now. But orders are orders, especially in this case. “You coming?” 

Martyn would be well within his rights to be angry or fighting right now, it’s true, but faced with the pure incomprehension that this situation’s giving him, as well as the blank his mind goes into for a moment at the sound of the leash being secured, all attempts at aggression fail miserably.

"I’m… slightly scared, to think about what kind of favour involves  _this_.” He remains sitting. If Xephos really wants him to come along just like that, especially with no explanation, he knows what he can do. Instead Martyn crosses his arms, trying not to feel too off balance.

When the leash only tightens and there’s no give to indicate that Martyn’s any closer to moving along, Xephos sighs and turnes around with a regretful look in his eyes.

“Listen, man. You  _really_ don’t want to know, trust me on that.” He really doesn’t want to pull at the leash, but he was short on time to begin with and this is… Well, it’s going smoother than expected, but Martyn seems to have regained his confidence and is staring up at him from his position on the floor, obviously not in any hurry to get up.

His eyes close for a moment and he rubs his forehead in annoyance and fear, ignoring the prickle of fear in the back of his head, and crouches in front of the blonde. "I  _really_ don’t want to drag you along, but if I have to, I will. S-sorry.”

Martyn pauses, the stutter in Xephos’ voice confusing him slightly. This… Notch, this had better be a dream, or else this couldn’t end well. 

"You… I’m going to be honest, collaring me and stuff? Not good for the whole diplomacy angle." Even if Xephos was looking at him, intentionally or not, with the biggest puppy eyes Martyn thinks he’s ever seen.

Xephos reminds himself very sternly never to disobey again. If this is where it gets him, he’s pretty eager to even make him coffee if it makes sure he’s not sent out to gather. He sighs and tugs very gently on the leash, blushing brightly as he does so. “Well, shit. Got me there, I suppose. B-but… It’s a lot easier if you do. Trust me on this.”

Martyn makes a soft, repressed squeak at the unexpected small tug on the leash, neck tipping forward ever-so slightly for a moment before he pulls himself back. He feels like Xephos is being genuine, somehow. Okay, so maybe Martyn doesn’t always have the best track record, but it’s not his fault he’s generally a pretty trusting person.

"Right, so where exactly are you planning to take me to, then?" Trusting, but not, generally, naive.

Xephos shakes his head, darting to the floor and the sky before landing hesitantly on Martyn’s face again. He races through the options in his mind, considers just going back by himself and face whatever consequences. It isn’t fair of him to drag anyone into this, least of all Martyn who usually stuck to his forest and kept his head down.

But he can’t. The guilt rises up like bile and he swallows slowly, wrapping the end of the leash even more tightly around his hand to give him something to hold on to. "I… I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, okay?"

Martyn furrows his brow. On the one hand, he valued his own personal safety quite a bit (says the man who rushes into dark caves without a second thought beyond ‘oooh, shiny!’), but Xephos seemed pretty messed up about whatever this was.

He sighs. He’s going to regret this, isn’t he? "Right then. Take me to your leader, then, oh spaceman." He swallows slightly, the motion uncomfortable against the soft pressure of leather. Gallows humour, he could do that, right?

Xephos lets his shoulders drop in relief and gets to his feet quickly, letting the leash hand loosely between them. “O-okay. Come on, then.”

His feet drag over the ground as he walks back towards the labs, feeling impossibly stupid with another man following him like a fucking  _dog._ That idiot had always liked the imagery, something Xephos finds himself unable to agree with - but then, he never really gets a say in this. He glances at Martyn every once in a while, trying to keep the worry from his eyes but failing terribly. The coarse fabric of his clothes tugs and drags at the skin on his back but he doesn’t wince, keeping his back as straight as possible as they approach the towering building.

Martyn sighs, keeping his eyes firmly to the ground as they walk, trying to ignore the swinging black leather in his vision, with not much success. He doesn’t like this all that much, but there didn’t seem to be an option that didn’t involve following Xephos, and he’d rather do that with his dignity intact.

Well, as much dignity as a man can have while he’s collared and leashed, at any rate.

He ignores the looming building shadowing over them resolutely, only glancing up for a moment before returning his gaze to the ground.

"Is there anything you  _can_  tell me, Xephos?”


	2. advena

_Is there anything you can tell me, Xephos?_

There is so much that he wants to say, if he’s honest. _Get the fuck out of here. Knock me out and run._ But he can’t. He’s a coward because of it, but he can’t. With a frown he glances up at the towering building that used to be such a comfort to him. It had been his, once, to wander around in and follow his dreams. With friends. Oh, how things changed.

When Martyn asks him a question he glances to his side and hesitates. It’s risking more than he dares, but he supposes he owes Martyn a warning, if nothing else. Slowly, he rolls up his left sleeve and holds his arm forward for a short moment, just enough to let Martyn see the ragged mess of scars there. Some are old and faded, others are new and raise up from the skin in angry red slashes.

Quickly he drops his arm again and rolls the sleeve back down, averting his eyes. "Keep quiet, when you can."

Martyn widens his eyes at the momentary sight, coming to the instant conclusion that he was screwed. Hard. Against, like, an iron spike or something. He nods numbly, looking around at the landscape around them, almost wistful. It’s a shame that the obvious doesn’t occur to him, that his hands are still free to do what he wishes with (heh), as he’s led into the imposing building, staring back down at the ground as the door shuts behind them.

The door shuts with a quiet click like it always does, an dreaded finality to the sound that never fails to haunt Xephos every time he returns here. His home away from home – or it had been, once. Now the hallways are ominous more than anything, no longer any comfort. He tugs gently on the leash with flustered cheeks, edging Martyn on. “Come on, he’s waiting.” 

He’ll do whatever he can do distract him from Martyn, if that’s possible. A scar or two more won’t hurt him and he’s dragged Martyn along for the ride without any real reason other than orders. He deserves more than being thrown to the lions just like that - but then, the world doesn’t work that way. Not anymore.

Martyn steps forward at the leash tug wordlessly, following Xephos. He’s not in any hurry to get to his inevitable death, especially not with the way he’s been collared and leashed and dragged along - no matter how regretful Xephos seems. He tries paying careful attention to the path they take, in case he can escape, but, joy of joys, with nothing else to focus on aside from the sound of their feet, autumn’s hold is trying to wrap around him again, causing his eyelids to drop for a moment, stumbling. He pulls himself together again after a moment, trying to stay as determined as possible to not show any weakness.

They meander through the maze of hallways for a while, the layout still as engraved into his head like it ever was. They pass some of the old research labs and operation rooms, most of the doors bolted shut. It´s eerily quiet here nowadays. Xephos doesn’t look at Martyn anymore, just wraps his fingers around the leash so tight that the leather digs into his skin as they walk deeper and deeper into the layout of the building that is too big, too pristine now.

After too many minutes they arrive at the end of a corridor and Xephos nods quietly at the man sitting next to a door, back just a little bit too straight to be comfortable. His blond hair is messy and tangled and his eyes snap to Xephos and Martyn as soon as he hears their echoing footsteps, the look just a little bit too wild to be perceived as normal.

"Lalna," Xephos mutters quietly, his eyes to the floor. He hears the man shift in his seat, hands probably gripping the gun that never leaves his lap nowadays. "We’re expected."

Martyn looks up as they stop, widening his eyes before he catches himself. No weakness, not one. How many people were here, doing this? How many old friends had been pulled into this, never to return? He didn’t want to think about it but the very act of not wanting to made it the only thing he could think about.

What a time for his bad attention span to desert him.

When Lalna nods almost unnoticeably Xephos brushes past him and opens the heavy door, skin crawling when he hears the familiar, ominous creaking. Most of the doors had been metal ever since the beginning, sturdy and opening and closing with barely a sound, but this particular one had never seemed to cooperate.

And of course, this was the one door that he now had to go through every day. 

He let the leash hang slack for a moment as he turned in the middle of the doorway, eyes glowing softly below a knitted brow. “I truly am sorry, Martyn. Just… Don’t talk too much, it’ll just piss him off.”

“‘m dead already. Might as well get some good jabs in there before I go.” If anyone had ever called Martyn an optimist, they’d eat their words if they heard him now, the faintest attempt at a wry smile curling at a corner of his mouth. Gallows humour was always fun, right. Right?

He walks forward on Xephos’ lead, steady steps not betraying anything besides a wistful purposefulness. Ridgedog isn’t a surprise, really. The ornate throne the demigod sits on isn’t a surprise at all. The shadows that darken his features are definitely a surprise. As is the glass of… something, perched in long nailed hands.

Welp, the meter for how screwed he was, was completely broken.

Xephos lets Martyn enter before shutting the door behind them both with a soft croak, the finality of it all almost ridiculous in the emptiness of the room. There isn’t much to speak of apart from the throne and Ridge, it all serves to draw attention to the demigod who watches them approach. Ridgedog had always liked extravagance in one way or another; anyone who ever visited his base knew  that. But now, as a twisted centre piece in one of the former laboratories with all attention drawn to him, there was no mistaking it.

They had been friends, once. A very long time ago. But pranks had turned cruel and Xephos had gotten lost along the way. He still is, he supposes; but where once he’d had some hope of returning to the stars someday, if only just for a visit, he knew he didn’t have anywhere to go now. 

Looking at his feet, he takes a deep breath to steady himself before wiping all emotions from his face and moving forward slowly, eyes still cast down as he feels Ridge watching them both from the shadows. He can hear the chuckle in his head and it sends goose bumps racing down his arms, but he ignores them and stops a few steps away from the throne, Martyn following close behind.

"As per your command, sir," he says quietly, his voice not shaking any more. 

Martyn stares at Ridgedog. This wasn’t the man who he and Toby had adventured with at one point, this didn’t even seem like the man who had become the Grinch for a single cold December. This man didn’t care about seeming human anymore.

There’s a pressure building above Martyn, tingling with the familiar wrongness that any of Ridge’s magic ever gave off, and it’s trying to force him down. Down, onto his hands and knees, like the pet he’s been collared and leashed and made out to be.

Every one of Martyn’s muscles is tensed with the effort to resist the pressure, and he shudders as Ridgedog chuckles again, the sound ringing hollowly in his ears. The demigod - demon, more like, Martyn thinks bitterly - reaches out and strokes a hand over Martyn’s cheek for a moment, before he returns to his casual position. The touch burns, and Martyn would growl at Ridgedog if he didn’t know that it would just amuse the man more.

Instead, he puts on his best confident grin, trying not to waver as he quips; “This place is a bit dull, isn’t it? Then again, I suppose it suits you just fine.” He does at least have this tiny bit of control in the situation, and he’s going to take advantage of it for as long as possible.

Xephos bites his lip and glimpses at Martyn as unassumingly as possible, trying to think loud enough so that Martyn will hear him. He understands the need to stand your ground, to not give his former friend the satisfaction of buckling under whatever twisted magic pressure he’s using without a second thought.

But the repercussions are always grave. 

He watches Ridge’s eyes darken as he listens to Martyn’s sneer, watches the muscles of his legs tremble under the force Ridge is undoubtedly unleashing on him. He can feel it himself, soft waves of power that curl up around Martyn and make the hairs in his neck rise up in fear. He knows very well the way the hard floor feels under bruised knees. They ache in phantom pain and he shifts slightly, stilling when he hears Ridge’s voice break the painful silence.

"I thought I told you to break him in,  _Xephos._ " 


	3. quiritatio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ridgedog is an ass.

Oh, Martyn didn’t want that. Xephos had been perfectly polite and regretful about this whole thing, and it’s not his fault Ridgedog is a sadistic bastard. He flashes his best - if more than a little shaky - sunny grin at Ridgedog. "It’s not his fault I’m completely untameable."

Even if the way he shudders at the ever-increasing weight bearing down on him and feeling like it’s going to break every bone in his back tells a different story. Even if he makes a noise at the sudden increase in force, fists balling up and entire body shaking with the pure effort, the pure effort that he won’t be able to keep going for much longer.

Even if, the next moment, he falls, hands flying out to catch himself onto all fours, every part of his body screaming in pain. There’s a distinct cracking sound, but with the way his body is screaming at him, he can’t tell if something’s broken or if it’s just more weird magic. He can’t decide which one he’d prefer.

Xephos can’t help but snap his head up when he hears Martyn his the floor and he cringes, limbs shaking as if to urge him to the blonde’s side. He’s torn between risking his own skin again to help someone who can’t really be helped and staying quiet on the background in an attempt to enjoy a few minutes away from Ridge’s  _undying_ attention. But he can’t help it, the guilt rising up in his throat like bile, and he shakes his head at the laughing man on the throne.

"Ridge, please… Can’t you leave him out of this?  _I_ was the one that screwed up, don’t…”

His words are cut off when Ridge moves his head to look at him and he bites his tongue in shock, the magic crashing down on him instead with such force that he immediately buckles to his knees.

You can’t say that Xephos isn’t a quick learner.

With head bent down he tries to catch his breath, Ridge’s soft chuckle as much of a punishment as the way his bones creak under the pressure. He hears Martyn gasp quietly but doesn’t look to the side again, digging his nails into his thighs as he waits helplessly.

“ _You_ will stay quiet. I will deal with you later, space vermin. Now, as for you…”

Martyn doesn’t look up, and he wouldn’t look up even if he could. His hands scrabble desperately at the smooth floor, looking for any purchase to keep himself on all fours. The pressure has at least lessened, ever so slightly, but every breath is a gasping struggle as he fights to be the one in control of his position.

He doesn’t make out what Ridgedog says next, too focused on trying to get his thoughts back in order to care about what the demigod would be doing with his newest plaything. He rushes back into reality rather unwelcomely as the leash is tugged on, wrapped in Ridge’s hands and looking far more like a weapon than it ever did in Xephos’. He crawls forwards, body protesting, but the insistent tugs leaving him no choice, until he is directly at the base of the ornate throne.

Ridgedog begins carding a hand through Martyn’s hair lazily, and Martyn is almost confused at the tenderness — well, not tenderness, Ridge had never known what tenderness was — of the action, before an unpleasant tingling begins spreading out across his scalp, and a worse tugging feeling attaches itself to the tops of his ears, as if they’re being pulled up—

And honestly, he doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to think about what Ridgedog is planning to do to him.

When the magic dissipates Xephos straightens his back but doesn’t rise to his feet, choosing the safety of kneeling over possibly setting Ridge off again. He is always unpredictable and when there’s a new someone, he can be all over the place - and that never ends well for anyone.

So he stays down and stares at his nails that are digging half-moons of pain into his thighs and listens to Martyn making small, confused noises under the blanket of magic that accompanies Ridge. But he’s not screaming, not yet; Xephos isn’t sure if that can be counted as a good sign, but it’s a blessed reprieve either way.

But even the silence gets unnerving after a while and Xephos shifts, unsure what to make of it when he’d expected chains and screams and god knows what other things Ridge has started fancying on a whim - you never know. But it remains eerily quiet save for Martyn’s laboured breathing, so he glances up from under his eyelashes and

– freezes –

and his stomach does a flipflop of the most unwelcome kind and he has to ball his hands into fists to make sure that’s the only reaction his body gives. Ridge is staring at him, not at Martyn, as his hand rests in the blonde’s hair and pets him gently, as if he’s a…

O, gods above.

Martyn’s brow is still knitted in anger but his eyes are shut tight, so he can’t see the way his hands are contorting and shifting, how a shadow runs over them, how the bones underneath his skin seem to shift and move at an almost leisurely pace. Absently, Xephos wonders what it would feel like, if it hurt; but Ridge watches him like a hawk and he stays quiet.

Martyn is doing his very best to keep himself detached from this situation. He just doesn’t want to know, and it’s that self-same fact that makes it so hard for him to just pull himself into his mind. (He pretends, though, because at least pretending makes it slightly real.) He can feel the cracked bones in his back, where he’d been forced down hard to the ground, slowly mending themselves. In his attempts to stay distracted, it’s a few moments before he realises that they’re not mending themselves the right way.

There’s something wrong, alien, about the way his bones are knitting themselves together, and he’s almost certain that they were different to before. Not that he’s an expert in his own anatomy, but even so, the way his position on all fours aches less and less is definitely not a thing to be trusted.

Another few moments pass, before Martyn’s mind is dragged fully and uncomfortably back to the surface by the feeling of the pressure being lifted from him. It draws a small, unwilling whimper from him as he cracks his eyes open slightly, trying to peer up at Ridgedog. He can’t see the demigod, more than the man’s feet and legs, but he doesn’t have to see him to guess that Ridgedog is making  _that grin_ , twinkle and all.

There’s a moment of silence as Martyn well and truly pulls himself together, before he tries to push himself up into a stand, a sit, or even a kneel would do. He stops abruptly, keening in pain as his back protests in the same way that an arm or a leg would do if you stretched them too far. Well, that solves the mystery of the weird bones. Or, at least, he returns his gaze to his hands, never quite shaking off Ridge’s careful petting, some weird bones.

It’s odd that he hadn’t noticed the way his hands (were they?) were until right this second. They feel deeply numb, but with the amount of bone reshuffling that it looks as if is going on, there’s probably not too much of a nerve connection in there.

Xephos has seen a lot of things in his life. He´s seen the stars, the dusty surface of the moon right underneath his feet. He´s seen coffee that does things that no one speaks of any more, he´s seen bloody rituals and horrible monsters that lurk in caves just underneath your base. And since this, since  _Ridge,_ he´s seen his own body in some horrible ways that he wishes desperately he could forget.

But nothing has quite prepared him for the sight of this, of Martyn on his hands and knees with joints going just far enough into the opposite direction that Xephos’ own bones seem to hurt just at the sight of it. His spine is slightly arched and his shirt clings to his torso awkwardly, pulling into new directions to accommodate the shifting stature that the fabric wasn’t meant for.

His face has  _oh, thank the gods_  not changed much; Martyn’s pupils are blown wide but surrounded by a familiar shade of blue and his mouth is still a mouth, even though a snarl is something he’d never seen Martyn wear before. Xephos watches him stare at hands that seem to force themselves into some sort of new arrangement, the creaking of joints almost audible in the tense silence of the room. It  _looks_ like it hurts but Martyn doesn’t whine save for the one time when he tries with obvious effort to get up, unable to bend his spine back the way he’s used to. He just lands on his hands again, confusion and anger darkening his expression, and Xephos tries really hard not to vomit as he watches muscles and bones shift.

He drags his eyes away from the hands that are so  _wrong_  now, swallowing thickly when he notices Martyn’s ears poking out from under blond hair that clings to his head, sticky with sweat (but not blood, thank heavens there’s no blood). It’s hard to comprehend a body that’s so clearly defying all the rules that it was supposed to be sticking too, ears much too large and covered with a patchy kind of fur hair that almost but not quite matches his hair colour.

And underneath it all, there is the soft touch of magic that Ridge never allows to die down completely, softly tugging at the edges of Xephos’ vision, dragging his attention away as he tries to formulate any thought at all that will help him shove reality back to the way it’s supposed to be instead of this distorted version of it. Ridge’s presence had always been distracting but he was more in control than ever now, not even moving his hands to lift someone’s chin – as if even that movement would be too much to waste on people as low as he had decided they were.

Xephos remains quiet, using all the energy he has to calm his stuttering heart and keep drawing in breath after laboured breath as he waits. But he can’t stop his eyes from blazing brightly, not meeting Ridge’s gaze but knowing the anger he shows will doom him regardless.

_Bring me a pet_ , he’d said.  _You know who I want._ And Xephos would never forgive Ridge  _or_ himself for this.


	4. saeva

It’s odd, really, how natural the form he’s being forced into feels, even if is the exact opposite; and by all rights, he should be at the very least in heavy amounts of discomfort. He’s grateful for small mercies, at the very least. (Another thing that’s odd is how jaded he’s acting; his tried and tested technique of emotion repression doing him well, for now. Probably wouldn’t be long before everything hit him like a train crash.)

He has no real concept of the changes currently going on in his body, aside from the persistent numbness telling him where things are happening. He just stops being able to feel a place for a while, and when he can feel it again, it’s become quintessentially  _wrong_. Nothing cooperates the way it’s meant to, and even though he wouldn’t be able to walk anyway without certain death right now, he gets the sinking feeling that it’s not as simple as crawling, his arms and legs shifting and becoming  _other_. Vaguely, he wishes that he had been born some other type of forest spirit, something that would actually know how to use as misshapen a body as this.

His ears prick up as he hears Ridgedog draw a breath to speak (entirely for show, of course, if Martyn knows anything), and  _man_  that’s such an odd feeling. He almost forgets to listen to whatever it is the man’s saying.

As if to finish off, as the final shifting of his body seems to slow, and he finally manages to take a steady breath, his vision shifts, going blurred for a moment. Well, to be precise, one eye’s vision goes blurred, colours fading out. He restrains a yelp at this, the noise a muffled squeak.  When the vision fades back in again, everything’s wrong. The colours in one eye don’t work properly.

Martyn risks a glance at Xephos. The man looks about ready to throw up, not that he can be blamed for this. But Martyn can see the emotions brewing in those glowing eyes, and tenses up for what Ridgedog is going to say.

"You can take care of the little pet for now,  _space-man_. You’ve dealt with worse.” It’s clear that there’s a promise of yet another ‘worse’ in the man’s voice, and Martyn shudders on Xephos’ behalf. But with that, Ridgedog disappears in a flourish of coat, and Martyn finally relaxes. 

As best he can like… this.

It’s a moment of quiet and a ruffle of fabric and then Ridge is gone, his words echoing in the room long after he is gone – it’s like a death sentence. Slowly, Xephos uncurls his cramped fingers and watches the blood return to the pale digits, too afraid to look back up again. But he knows he has to, eventually; if only to make sure Martyn is still breathing and still has limbs he can move before Ridge inevitably returns again.

There is nowhere for them to run to, he knows that much; he knows the door that shut behind them is bolted down with more than plain metal, knows that Ridge – despite his apparent mania – is smart, that he knows how to take precautions to ensure that his precious pets don’t run away unless he tells them to run. And the ability to teleport has long been stripped away from Xephos, after one particular incident when he thought he was still able to run.

He shakes the horrid memories from his mind, shoves them firmly back in the compartment he’s made in his head just for moments like these so he can dedicate that space to thinking straight, for dealing with whatever has been thrown at them.

Slowly, he raises his head and feels his chest close up at the sight of Martyn. He is still on all fours – of course he is, he thinks bitterly, Ridge would not have it any other way – but he looks a little calmer now, remarkable so even for someone who has had his body twisted and torn by nothing more than ill will and a sick sense of revenge.

“ _Ponfo mirann, t’hyla_ ,” he whispers quietly, knowing that Ridge can probably hear him but beyond caring for a blissful second or two. He’ll deal with new scars and the revenge of a wicked man later; now, all he can think about is how his blood is rushing in his ears as he meets Martyn’s eyes, shining not so much with pain but with obvious confusion and disorientation.

His knees moan in protest when he stands up and he rubs them absently before slowly making his way to Martyn. His footsteps are much too loud in the empty room, almost painfully so. Martyn looks up at him with unfocused eyes and he chokes for a moment at the sight of a body that is just so _wrong_ now, and for a moment he is amazed that his skin has even managed to contain all the changes without breaking and tearing apart.

“Martyn…” he manages, voice broken. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

A low, frustrated growl rumbles up in the back of Martyn’s throat as he tries to work out how his body works now. The growl is something at least, even if it’s more some old, old, genetic instinct causing it, not really the man himself at all. His face muscles won’t even cooperate, even that stupid little thing has been robbed from him, so it’s a long few moments after Xephos speaks until Martyn works out how to stop growling and start speaking.

"You’re … not … the … one … who’s … a … bast-ard."

The words are long and extended, his voice hoarse. It takes so much effort to make the sounds of every letter, and form every letter into a coherent word and into a coherent sentence. After all, as a rule of thumb, animals aren’t meant to be able to talk.

He tries to get his face to smile tentatively at Xephos, but who knows, it could fail miserably; it’s not as if he has a mirror on him. There’s definitely a change in his expression, that’s for sure, as he stares up at the man towering over him.

The world looks so  _wrong_  with his mismatched eyes, colours never seeming quite right. A part of his mind wonders, detachedly, if the colourblind eye has changed colour, or if he’s gotten to keep his pretty baby blues. He hopes he has. 

His gaze flickers down to his hands again for a moment, and he almost retches. They’re the worst part, to be honest. Most other parts of his body still  _vaguely_ resemble what they used to be. Back legs are longer than the front legs - he can’t tell if he’s still on his knees or not - his back is his back, etcetera.

But his hands just… They’re horrific. Human - well, dryad, but it’s the same basic principle - hands were not built for what has happened, and if there’s any part of his body that stands out at particularly  _wrong_ , it’s his hands. A shudder moves through his body at the sight before his gaze returns to Xephos. The man seems to be a lovely security blanket of non-evil normality, even if said man wrapped a collar around his neck in the first place, starting the whole ball rolling.

There’s so many apologies left unspoken but they die Xephos’ his throat as he sees Martyn’s face expression fall, the attempt at a smile fading into sheer horror as the man looks at his twisted and swollen hands. He supposes that Ridge intended for them to look like _paws_ , animal claws caught underneath human-like skin that wasn’t meant to stretch that way. They look horrible; unusable and cramped, the remains of fingers bent too far towards the palm and knuckles standing out too far underneath patchy fur.

Cruel would be too kind a word for this.

He swallows his nausea quickly and kneels next to Martyn, one of his hands hovering over the remainder of Martyn’s digits before he decides against it. They were never close, the dryad and the spaceman, and this ridiculous attempt at comfort would be useless before he even executed it. He doesn’t want to make a mockery out of a man who had been tortured so much already.

So instead he reaches up, touching Martyn as little as possible as he flicks the metal hook and lets the leash drop to the floor like an unanimated snake. He knows he won’t be able to remove the collar so he doesn’t even try, mind quickly running over the _favours_ he’ll have to offer Ridge to convince him that Martyn has been shamed enough, that such a physical representation of ownership is unnecessary. He might even be able to persuade him to listen.

Marytn is looking up at him but his eyes seem unfocused, like they can’t force the world around him into a proper image. He can only imagine what kind of damage has been done inside of his body, how far Ridge decided to take it this time. He’s careful enough with his toys, usually; doesn’t want them breaking too soon because he gets bored so easily. Then again, this was part amusement and part revenge.

His eyes glow softly as he settles down next to Martyn, pushing all worries about later to the side. They won’t be leaving soon.

“H-how… How do you feel?” It’s a pathetic question, one without a right or even a satisfying, answer, but it’s all he can offer Martyn now, in the eye of the storm.

There isn’t a word to describe how Martyn feels, and even if there was, it wouldn’t be right to describe such a whirlwind in such a way. Powerless, that’s a good one. His voice has been robbed from him, good enough as, so he can no longer spit sharp barbs of wit as an impudent defence to the end.

(He can’t sing, either. That fact alone hits him like a train wreck. He thinks he’ll miss it most of all.)

His hands have very evidently been robbed from him, the raised and mangled flesh that’s a mockery of the pads on a paw would make holding anything impossible; even if he could manipulate his discomforted, useless fingers into managing it. It feels as though his fingers are almost fused together, preventing him from moving each one more than a few millimetres.

And, he’s slowly realising, the part of him that allowed him to cast magic is just… gone. There’s nothing, a dull energy permeating his very being if he even tries to do anything. Besides, it generally requires some kind of catalyst, and it’s not as if he can snap his fingers.

He makes a small noise, high and pitiful, biting a lip that’s ever so slightly off from where it should be. He wants to give Xephos an answer, he really does, but there’s nothing but another high noise, and an unwilling shudder that runs through his entire body.

It only hits Xephos now, how close to Ridge’s disturbing idea of a pet Martyn has come; his voice seems to have left him all but completely and the small noise that escapes makes Xephos wince in horror. It’s nothing like Martyn’s own voice, a pathetic remainder that only makes it more apparent how helpless he is. Ridge likes them helpless; he relishes in it because it means it takes him less time and energy to keep them down on the ground.

He’d robbed Xephos of his sight, once. He never figured out why he turned that particular torture back, but he had never asked in fear of it happening again. And now he sees the same panic he felt then reflected in Martyn’s eyes, and he wishes to the gods that he could say _anything_ to comfort him but there’s nothing left.

He apologizes quietly and pulls his legs up, wrapping his arms around them so he doesn’t take up too much space. There has to be a way out of this, if not for him then at least for Martyn. But the ideas have all but dried up, his skin itches with the remainders of the past few weeks and there’s not a fucking thing he can do and it infuriates him.

“I’m going to kill him for this,” he says, almost like an apology but not quite, when Martyn looks at him questioningly. “I’m going to get you out of here, somehow, and I’m going to kill him.” He’s convincing himself more than anything, knows that without weapons or magic or even a door to go through there’s not much they can do.

It made him feel pathetic.

“I know you don’t think it’s my fault, but it is,” he continues, a little more strongly. “At least in part. And even if _this,”_ he gestures at Martyn’s hands, his body that doesn’t fit like it used to, “is something I can’t undo, I want him to pay.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. The Labs laugh quietly around them. 


End file.
